


won’t you breathe with me?

by tnevmucric



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 10:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20974202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tnevmucric/pseuds/tnevmucric
Summary: somewhere in his room, river phoenix is singing about a hole in the ozone layer. he shoves the pills back into the drawer and doesn't think about them for another three weeks.





	won’t you breathe with me?

It does hurt, Richie thinks, to be too coherent.

It feels real when he stares at the simple packaging, shoved clumsily in a drawer full of miscellaneous junk. Hair ties from grade 5 still have persistent curls in their fibres and a chapstick he hasn't opened in a decade rolls about noisily; there's stacks of yellow sticky-notes amongst the collection of half-empty pens and he can recognise the indent of a would-be grocery list on one of the blank squares.

They're just cold and flu tablets, really. Red and kind of gritty, they're nothing like the glossy fish-oil capsules he watches his mom take every other morning. He thinks he remembers them tasting bitter and foreign—too opposing on his tongue and far too easily lodged in his throat. They're still not any more appealing, years later, but he holds them anyway.

He heard about the kid in 8th grade who tried to off himself with his dad's liquor and some meds he stole right from under Mr. Keene's nose and _boy_ did it sound painful. He didn't die outright, because apparently death was an _uncommon outcome_, but it'd been liver failure that snatched him in the end. That week of school had been quieter, everyone tripping on air and mumbled words, unsure about grieving periods, unsure about grieving at all for someone you barely glanced at—someone you didn't even have a class with.

That thought doesn't kill the seed in his brain, though. He examines the label—500mg of paracetamol, 30mg of pseudoephedrine hydrochloride and 6 mg of codeine phosphate as the active ingredients. Per tablet. That'd do something, wouldn't it? Probably. He scratches the back of his calf with his toe, the box rattling slightly.

He'd asked Eddie about it the week of the kids death, originally out of a morbid curiosity he wasn't aware ever existed. He'd never been so close to death and it settled strangely beside him, day to day, like a part of him had detached itself from the inside and come bleeding out. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. Eddie had gone on a tangent.

"The body channels all of the paracetamol to the liver", he traced the shape of his own liver against his side, "which gets so overwhelmed that you get _worse-than-seasick_ nausea and start vomiting all over the place."

"Worse-than-seasick?", Richie had questioned. Eddie nodded solemnly, picking up his lunch from where he'd discarded it and peeling back a segment of orange.

"If you don’t get treated straight away then death can take anything from a couple of days to a couple of weeks while the liver starts shutting down. At the hospital they make you drink activated charcoal because you basically have two hours to get treatment, or it won't work and your liver will fuck right off. Apparently after the charcoal you wait hours to figure out if you're going to live or die. Up to 3 hours, I think. If you survive past 3 whole hours of pain you get to live. Can you fucking imagine that? and even then, the rehabilitation would suck balls."

Deliberately, Richie sets the packet face-down on his bedside table. He doesn't want to imagine it, he can't even _fathom_ it, but the comfort is so eerie that he lets the cold and flu tablets stay out. He has the urge to cut his hair, rearrange his room—the urge to do anything so drastic that it snaps his head out of whatever fog it's discovered in these recent months. He could let the pills sit under his tongue, forget about them, fall asleep with them in him as they'd eventually tip into his throat. He could sleep through the liver failure, the headaches and the _worse-than-seasick_ nausea, too.

"People think they can sleep through it", Eddie tuts, thumb nail digging into a stubborn section of the fruits' skin. "Y'know, like sleeping pills? but the pain wakes you up. It's excruciating. You wonder why they choose that even when they know it's gonna hurt."

Somewhere in his room, River Phoenix is singing about a hole in the ozone layer. He shoves the pills back into the drawer and doesn't think about them for another three weeks.

* * *

It's during the heat of a morning, in the shadow of his doorway, that Richie remembers. It gives him a headrush—the sheer possibility alone that he could take his own life with an easy few sips of water does something to his hands. He gets shaky, stuck in the moment of being _okay_, of being living and forgiving but also of falling away. It starts to become a thing, building quickly and spiralling him desperately. _Okay_ sours so quickly and he shuts his door quietly, the taste of milk and honey toast on his tongue and a certain spot of his shoulder barely damp from where his mom had jokingly slapped the dish-towel. Being alive so early on a Monday, he thought, felt like a shameless invitation from the world—the slaughterhouse—the bucket that's lighter _and_ lighter because there's a hole in it—It has free real estate, yes, _yes_, _make yourself at home_.

He... he doesn't think he's quite good at anything.

He tried being a writer not too long ago, even asking Bill if he wanted an extra set of eyes on whatever short story he was scripting (under the guise, of course, of him being bored out of his mind because—_"It doesn't get any more fun when I'm the only one beating my Street Fighter score!"_) It only made him feel like shit. He couldn't pluck words out of the air and solder them into perfect empathy, perfect androgyny of terror and reality—he had a feeling, in that moment, that Bill Denbrough would most surely be a wonderful author of horror: no matter how much he liked to bring the ending to a gruesome halt.

Next he thought that maybe he was like Ben. Ben who harboured the secret talent of design and mathematics, something he himself hadn't even realised until they'd gotten around to building the clubhouse all those years ago. Needless to say, he's obsessed now, and when Richie asks to help—

well, Ben takes one look at the six band-aids covering five of his ten fingers, takes a look at the scrape on the underside of his jaw and the bruise covering his knee through the hole of his jeans, and doesn't need to say anything more. It'd been worth a shot, Richie thinks.

Photography was a kick to the guts.

_”Creativity”_, Stan had said, after looking at Richie's picture of his shoes, his picture of the sky and about nine shots of his cigarettes, _”is what you lack. Passion, too. You don't even like taking photos, Richie.”_

He didn't like sitting in a library all day either, and he always hated having to actually care about what he was going to wear.

He asks Eddie to tell him about nursing.

Eddie pauses. He's eating cubes of mango this time, plastic fork hovering above the fruit when his eyes narrow in what Richie momentarily misleads as suspicion, but soon recognises is concern. There's laughter from the cafeteria where their friends are crowded. Richie pulls his eyes away and plucks at the grass instead; Eddie likes sitting under the shade of the tree whenever he can—it's not like Sonia will ever know.

(Richie's sure to lay his jacket out for Eddie to sit on every time, just in case.) 

"What do you wanna know?", he asks evenly, resuming to pick at his lunch. Richie coils a weed around his finger, giving it a harsh tug and shrugging.

"I dunno. Why do you wanna do it?"

It doesn't make sense to Richie. Nursing is dirty, and not _sexy_ dirty. It's physically gross sometimes, and the grossest thing Richie's ever seen Eddie do is forget to wash his hands but even then he'd realised almost immediately and rushed back to the restroom.

Hospitals are chaotic and unbalanced and uncontrollable but Eddie Kaspbrak wants to go to the furthest college he can find to complete a nursing degree. It doesn't make sense—the guy fucking jacks off with hand-wash. Probably.

Eddie eventually shrugs and waves a hand. "I guess it's just what I'm good at. Medicine and stuff."

Which leads Richie back to honey on his tongue, milk coating his teeth, contemplating _medicine and stuff_ and if 9000mg of paracetamol is enough to kill him without the _worse-than-seasickness_. He's got to leave for school in 2 hours, they'll realise he's not there in 3 and a half. He really could just do it.

But why?

He makes it to class a little late and a little warm (he had to run halfway). Eddie raises an eyebrow when he slips into his seat which Richie doesn't really understand. He's been late before, he's shown up for one class the whole _day_ before, he's ditched before—what makes today so different?

_can i come over after school?_

It's written in red, legible letters and Richie has to think about it, wonder if he wants to use an excuse or postpone another day.

_I wanna run_, he itches to scribble back on their shared page of notes. _I've never wanted that before, not really, I just wanted to leave when the time was right. I don't know if I was too afraid to think about running or what but now it feels real. I just wanna go away. I might want to die. I think I want to die._

_No_, Richie decides is better, _no you can't. I'm booked for the next four hours—four days—four years, alone. In fact I'm leaving Derry all together, you won't see me around for much longer—_

_cant today_, he scribbles down, a slanted cursive Eddie always squints to read. _family stuff._

It's a lie, and the sympathy comes off of Eddie in waves, and the guilt solidifies in his stomach like tar, but he can't care today. He can't.

His mother loves him, he has a good relationship with his father, he should invite his best friend for dinner so they can fool around for a few hours.

He feels like he's already said too much.

* * *

"How was school, Rich?" 

His mother moves around the kitchen easily, focus split in tendrils around the house—the sink, the stove, the radio, the stove, Richie slumped against the breakfast bar.

" 'S okay", he answers. She slides him a glass of grapefruit juice in time with the snap of the fridge door closing. "Thanks. When's dad getting home?"

"A little after five", she checks her thin wrist watch as she cracks pepper into the frying pan. "There's 20 minutes until The Days of Our Lives is on if you wanna finish up your homework and watch with me."

"I hate that show", Richie pouts, rubbing at the condensation on his glass. "Laura's batshit crazy."

She laughs, bright and tender.

"_Language_—now go up and finish your homework, and take your juice with you too. I need to find where I put the damn coriander..."

The phone rings moments after he's collapsed onto his mattress, shoes shoved off in what could be haste and his half-finished grapefruit juice spilling out onto the carpet. A part of him can't breathe, something small and hidden inside suddenly so claustrophobic along his lungs—he wants to hide. He wants to be forgotten.

The ringing is shrill but muted, so far away even if the old phone is hooked up against his bed. He hears his mother answer it downstairs and the tap of her heels is aimed towards his room.

"Richie, honey, it's for you! Not too long, okay?"

Pushing his hand roughly up against his face he stretches an arm out and takes the olive green phone from off the hook, flopping back into bed and half-muffling his face with the pillow, tucking his elbow under the well worn polyester.

"Wh'ssup?", he mumbles.

"Hey", Eddie's voice is soft and Richie rolls on his back at the sound of it, squinting at the ceiling without his glasses and letting a deep breath build in his chest. "Just wanted to check on you, I guess."

"I'm okay", he answers distantly.

"You've been different lately."

Richie's teeth pinch the inside of his lip. "I know."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Not right now."

"But you know you can talk to me about it if you need to."

He takes a moment to consider Eddie's timing, to consider these out-of-focus weeks that seemed like they were never going to run dry.

"I know."

"You-", he doesn't think he's heard Eddie want to say so much at so once so seriously in a long while. "You know I love you, right? We all love you. Please tell me you know that, Rich."

There is such a thing as being subconsciously obvious, Richie thinks then. Somehow, someway, he's let this _killing himself_ thing become his Freudian slip. He scratches the inside of his wrist. He's tired, today. More tired than usual. Everything feels... heavy.

"I know", he has to focus on not gritting his teeth at that. "Don't worry, I'll be back to silly ol' me in no time, Eds."

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

It's a dangerous promise-not-promise and Eddie is terribly good at those. _You're taking your pills, Eddie-bear?_ he's heard Sonia say, followed by Eddie's sweet: _yes mommy_. Yeah, Sonia, he takes them and shoves them in the bin every day on the way to school. If there's a loophole, Eddie will find it. 

He's found it and tied it shut before Richie could even get the chance to consider.

"Richie?

"This chem work is killing me, sorry", he wheezes out a laugh. "I've got to get it done before dinner so I'll let you go. Bye."

He waits for Eddie to hang up. Eddie doesn't hang up. It feels like a nail in Richie's throat.

"Let's walk to school together tomorrow", Eddie suggests casually, but there's an underlying tone he hasn't bothered to hide. "We can stop by that bread shop and get a couple of fruit buns."

Eddie's waiting for the confirmation, he knows. The comfort of a successful compromise and the promise of another day. He rubs his aching head.

"Yeah, okay. I'll see you then."

Eddie lets out a soft sigh through his nose.

"Yeah. See you then."

Richie doesn't know if the ache in his chest is dissatisfaction or relief.

* * *

He doesn't really like fruit buns, but he doesn't hate them either.

Eddie pulls and stretches the dough as he eats it, letting it soften on his tongue like cotton candy before swallowing. Richie picks out the fruit.

* * *

Stan catches him after algebra.

"Where were you this morning? Eddie said you came to school together."

"I skipped", Richie shrugs. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing, really." Stan squints as they fall into step. It's not his place to confront issues in the group, nor is it in his nature. While he's able to deliver a decisive blow to Richie's ego on the more manic days, a dampened mood is something he can't navigate. "Richie-"

They enter the cafeteria just as the rain grows harsher outside. So much for skipping chemistry.

"How're you and Mike?", he deviates. "I forget." Stan's eyes fight to roll back.

"How're you and Eddie?"

"Ooh, Stan gets off a good one."

It doesn't come out of his mouth the way it should, he realises, but they're already sitting down at the group table (which isn't always frequented by said group) and Richie's hoping someone shows up to wipe the look of concern straight off of Stan's thin face.

"You know-"

"If Greta Keene even _looks_ at me one more time-", Beverly slams her bag to the table, "-it's on sight. No questions asked."

"Do you really want to get suspended?", Stan asks. Beverly waves her hand dismissively.

"I'll say she provoked me, I'll turn on the waterworks."

"Are you talking about Greta again?", Ben slides into the seat beside Stan and sets his tray down. "She wasn't even looking at you, you sit right in front of the board."

Richie plucks a voice out from somewhere in his stomach, playing it up, forcing something that could be considered enthusiasm into it.

"She said _on sight_ is what it is—I dun expect much less from ol' Ruby Red. Innit right, Stan_lay_? A lil' _one-two_, a right _sock_ in the jaw-"

The chorus of _beep-beep's_ feels like a blessing.

* * *

"What happened today?", Went Tozier asks as he moves around the dining table to the kitchen. "I thought we talked about skipping; you give us a call if something goes wrong and we pick you up and talk it through—that's what we agreed."

"I know." The wood grain of the table feels less daunting than looking up to watch his father serve dinner. His mom is getting changed. "Sorry. Won't happen again."

"I'm not saying don't do it again", Went stresses, bringing two plates over. "It'll happen again, regardless. I know I wish _my_ dad let me have a day off now and then when I went to school. It would have saved me a lot of unnecessary stress." He sets one plate in front of Richie and squeezes his shoulder. "I'm saying _talk to me_, Rich. Just let me or your mom know—or Stan or Eddie or whoever. Alright?"

"Yeah", Richie tries to smile. "Sorry." His dad ruffles his hair.

"Stop apologising. Now eat up, I heard your lovely mother spent hours slaving over the stove."

"Are you making fun of me?", her voice slides down the stairs. Went laughs.

"Not in a million years, my darling!"

Richie's father shoots him a wink and goes back to the kitchen. The food is appetising, but tastes like sawdust in his mouth.

* * *

He calls Eddie, this time. He's bargained 40 minutes from his mom but his dad had mouthed 45 over her head, passing him a bowl of dessert and shooing him away. It felt nice. It made him feel younger.

While he's dialling Eddie's house he realises that that might have been the first time in a long while he's sat and had dinner with his parents. Why did he stop in the first place? _When_ did he stop?

"Hello?" 

"Eds", he greets, feet swinging in the air as he lay stomach-down. "How the hell are ya?"

He's grateful for Eddie's laugh.

"Fine, idiot. I suppose you want notes?"

"If you please."

"Sure, give me a second."

Eddie's notes are always better than his, are always more organised and coordinated. He’ll make a good nurse, Richie knows, spoon halfway in his mouth as he shoulders the phone against his ear and scribbles down everything Eddie recites—which is a _lot_. Maybe he’ll be too good of a nurse.

”Hey Eddie?”

”Mmh?” Pages rustle over the line as Eddie searches for a certain page and Richie’s unsure of what he’d been trying to say. He hesitates, swirling his spoon through the bowl of partially melted ice-cream and tapping his foot against his pillow.

The rustling stops.

”Richie?”

”I'm sorry I've been acting fucked”, tumbles out of his mouth first—he could hit himself, honestly. “I know it's probably annoying having to deal with that. Me.”

”It's not”, Eddie insists. ”You just worry me sometimes.”

”That's not annoying?”

”No”, he’s firmer now and Richie’s mouth feels dry. “I care about you. The only time you're annoying is when you hit on my mom.“

”Hey, she smiled once.”

”Once being the operative word.”

Their laughter tangles over the phone line but dies down just as smoothly. “Really“, Eddie repeats. ”I mean it and I meant what I said to you before. I won't even say anything if you just want to vent or whatever. I can listen if you need me to.”

The concept of _needing to_ is appealing in a way that makes him want to crawl back into himself. His thoughts have only known the cracks of his ceiling, after all. Desperate and trying to fill in the peeled plaster, it seems like there’s never enough space for all of them.

”You won't say anything?” He can hear his voice crack. He hears Eddie shake his head.

”Not if you don't want me to.”

Richie says things he knows he’ll cringe at later like _I scare myself. _Things that start as _I’m not sure if _but end as _I want to. _It’s exhilarating and nauseating and if this is what overdosing feels like, he’s not partial to it at all.

But the feeling stays. Gnawing.

He rubs his eyes harshly and stutters worse than Bill on a bad day.

“Please say something.”

”I love you”, Eddie is immediate. “Why don't we do something tomorrow after school? We can see that movie you were talking about—I think it's still on at the Aladdin. I checked the day before last.”

He’d expected _get help. Go to a hospital. Are you sure you really want to kill yourself or are you just being dramatic again?_

“Okay”, his mouth is dry again. “Do you want to sleep over?” Eddie makes a contemplative noise.

“As long as you don't hog the blankets again because last time I swear I almost got frostbite—it was that _goddamn_ cold.”

He smothers a laugh in his hand.

“Promise I won't.”

“Then okay.”

“You don't wanna ask your mom?”

“If she says no then I'll just sneak out.”

Richie's heart kind of hurts at that. It does hurt, to feel wanted.

A yawn breaks through his lips. Eddie's continued concern can be heard through the phone.

“I'll give you the rest of the notes tomorrow morning before school, okay? Get some sleep.”

“Okay.” He contemplates. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” It feels like the most easiest of exchanges, familiar and confidential to them only. “See you tomorrow, Rich. I’m here whenever.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Tonight he doesn’t even focus on the drawer.


End file.
